Standard part of Procedure
by xLilly White
Summary: Sephiroth has an appointment with the ShinRa psychologist in order to get hypnotized. It's just a check-up to see if he's still sane enough to be First Class material. Nothing too complicated...


_Music: Mozart's Requiem, by Karajan. Featured piece: Domine Jesu._

* * *

•

"Standard part of procedure."

"But, _sir_ – I really don't see how this will help my military effectiveness in any way."

"Don't be a child, General. You know your existence has numerous goals other than simple warfare, whether they be the will of the Company or your own. Mesmerism has many virtues alongside checking whether our soldiers are mentally capable and strong."

"Tch." The silver-haired man stretched lazily upwards. "I suppose I'll just get my coffee and be off then."

The blonde Soldier executive looked up at him exasperatedly. "This is an order from the top. Schedule modification with red alert underlining _urgency._"

"Alright, alright."

"Also, now that you mention it – Doctor Hojo wanted me to tell you that caffeine does _not_ mix well with your new test shots."

Sephiroth smiled crookedly. "Yes; I've found the side effects to be quite… _stimulating_, especially when drilling directly after in the morning. I'll have to notify him."

"Sephiroth," Lazard glared at him, "You're dismissed."

"Perhaps you should commission some of my shots for yourself, they're wonderfully relaxing. And colourful."

"I can't afford to be relaxed when I have to goad idiots like yourself into doing tasks that less gentle men would whip you into doing without further consoling babble."

"Then I'm glad of your gentility, dear executive." A mocking little bow, swept over by a thousand white strands.

Lazard's brow was still all crumpled in a death-stare. "Is this some type of contest between you and Genesis? Who can get Lazard to break down and go on a rampage out of sheer frustration?"

"You could always come get hypnotized with me to get that frustration surgically extracted."

"Speaking of which. _Dismissed._"

"Hour?"

"You're already late."

"Tch."

•

The hypnotist awaited her patient tremulously. She was playing classical music on low volume as was her custom between patients, to find herself again; the music disembodied her, made her feel at peace with any miscomprehensions and frustrations she had with her patients' minds and words. The mind is a delicate matter; but when you're actually a professional in that domain, others seem to think that cognition is some kind of magic that can be wielded, and that a trained professional can therefore completely understand any word that drops from the patient's mouth. But that wasn't true, and it was the pressure of it that made her vacillate after every brainwashed, genetically-tampered human that passed through. She'd already done Mr Rhapsodos, and wouldn't be seeing him again till a month from now, thank God. But the one who was about to come through her door was even worse, however unbelievable that seemed.

She sat down in her patient's sofa and closed her eyes. One of the more agitated sequences of the Requiem she was listening to came on; plaintive violins shimmered and stretched over malevolent tenors in a veil of lace, and she felt herself alienated from her human worries, like a sort of depressurization sequence, transpierced as she was by the poignancy of that wondrous dead language.

Her hand crept over to increase the volume a bit, and then a bit more… and suddenly she could feel someone's presence; she sat bolt-upright.

_Repræsentet eas in lucem sanctam…  
_

He was coming forward, emerging from the corridor where faulty electric lights were flashing, and with the music everything morphed into a nightmarish _paysage_ – he was wearing his customary trench coat and its obscurity absorbed the clear-cut greys and whites of the surroundings till the black seemed to be a central focus – leather-clad legs strode forth, crags of light curving around the muscle to better define them, flashes in the midst of all that black. And his hair seemed like some ethereal substance, too light, too long, too unusual as it hung over all that darkness, the contrast of silver against black as inconsequential as snow in the night.

_Quam olim A-brahæ –_

She'd already seen his face everywhere, the papers, the TV, but to contemplate it here in this ambiance; he seemed demonic in that jaggedly cut bone structure, in that too-clear, icy green peering up from beneath a white brow; and yet how angelical in that posture, that dignity -

_- pro-omisis-ti – _

She got up slowly, didn't even think to turn off the damn music as he crossed the threshold, slowing a little, and smiling as he recognized the music which was pretty much blaring by now -

_- et semini e-e-eius.  
_

The feverish climax of the song whittled away as theistic praise resumed, and her brains seemed to switch back on. Her hand flew to the switch and denied the song a proper unwinding from that agitation, which made everything seem quite suspended in the awkward silence that followed.

"S-sorry, sir," she practically panted as she looked at him again; he had lost a bit of the glamour that the song had given him, and she started to notice little things like the empty coffee cup in his hand and… damn it, he could've made himself a little less intimidating, couldn't he? Maybe he enjoyed the effect he had on people. But she was a psychoanalyst, she knew just how ridiculously sensitive she was being and it was time for her to gather her wits.

"You have good taste," the General afforded her, "I'd even go so far as to say that it's made me _curious_ about what we're going to be doing."

"As opposed to what?" she managed to stammer.

"As opposed to utter skepticism and exasperation, I'm sorry to say," replied the man, looking down at her as if she was a domestic mammal doing something funny.

"Oh, don't worry," she said, recovering that low timber of voice that she used to ascend to a safe neutrality instead of the vulnerable emotiveness that her normal voice betrayed. "Most men are like that when they're forced to come to me."

"As long as it's a reaction solely redundant to_ this _practice of yours, and not any others," he said with some slyness in his eye; he seemed to be in a somewhat playful mood.

"Let me remind you that when you're in my office, I'm in charge," she shot back at this inappropriate comment, finding her defenses to be up and fully operational in hardly a minute; she was getting good at this intimidation stuff. "I'm a woman, and my art is the most theoretical and vague and somewhat _useless_ of them all, as they say; you're a General, and your art is much more tangible and real and urgent than mine. But while you're in my territory you'll respect what I do, just as I'd respect what you do if I were out there with you."

He was still standing; that smile had come back. "You respect warfare?"

"No." She returned his smile. "Just as you don't respect psychoanalysis. Which makes us even, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"Now then!" she said very scholarly, moving over to her compulsory chair and leaving room for him to settle on her couch. "Why don't you just sit yourself down."

"Ah," Sephiroth uttered amusedly, "I've veered from General to easily spooked child."

"I don't see the difference," the woman stubbornly said. "Your very amusement betrays a certain nervousness; you may not feel it, because you've conditioned yourself to react to the unknown with humour instead of fear, but it's still under there however much hidden it is."

"Here we go," he sighed to himself, slipping down onto the flamboyant red couch, dark folds of his trench coat invading the crimson like oil.

"What do you mean? I'm not going to analyze anything," she told him, "You're going to tell me things, and then I'm going to hypnotize you, and then, well, we'll just see how it goes."

"So what was that about my _nervousness, _then? An irrepressible urge?" Sephiroth mocked her.

"It was just to see how easy it is to irritate you," she shot back.

He rolled his eyes under his closed lids. "Oh, come on - "

"Now sir, if you'd please shut up, and let me remind you I'm the game master here."

The great General smirked. "If you keep that up I think I'm going to start to like you."

"Oh, we wouldn't want _that_, would we," she said, before cracking her fingers and settling down.

"No, no we wouldn't," Sephiroth muttered, drawing an arm over his eyes lazily.

"Alright," she said, crossing her legs. "Start talking."

"What- " He turned around a little, peeping at her under his arm. "No notebook? No little scribbly scratching while I tell you all my darkest secrets?"

"Oh, no, what you're about to say is really quite unimportant," she said, "And while they're consciously told, the secrets are definitely not your darkest."

"Smashing," Sephiroth drawled, nudging the crook of his elbow with his brow as he snuggled his face into it again. "Well, where do I start? Does it have to be chronological?"

"It doesn't have to be anything. It doesn't even have to make sense. Just tell me whatever you want."

"… what's your name?" he mumbled.

"That's not telling, that's _asking_," she said automatically. Then; "They didn't even have the decency to tell you my name?"

"There's only one hypnotist in the whole of the psychology department," he said.

She refrained from giving in to the urge of cursing at them in front of a patient. Even though she wasn't the type to brag about her work, she still felt annoyingly underrated. "And you didn't even have the decency to check the nameplate on the door?"

Sephiroth smiled crookedly. "I hadn't yet stepped into your territory, and thus owed you no particular respect."

"Well aren't you a gentleman," she snapped, "Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a dialogue, it's supposed to be a monologue. Get cracking."

"A monologue!" Sephiroth exclaimed, "Delightful. I get to over-glorify myself and pour out my words as if they were too poetic and meaningful not to be heeded."

"There will be interjections on my part if you start rambling," she warned him.

"I never ramble," he objected, though he still hadn't lost that playfulness. "And you didn't answer my question."

"You'll just have to look on the way out. Call me Doctor for now."

"I thought _I_ was the one who had permission to be big headed."

"Shut up and start talking," she snapped.

"_Alright,"_ he snapped right back at her.

There was a little silence. She took the time to take in this vision before her, of the world's most powerful man, soldier, strategist, mastermind, sprawled there on her couch with one arm over his face, the other on the hard surface of his abdomen; one leg hanging off the side of the couch and the other laying straight out amidst the leather undulations of his coat. Any other person would've been ungraceful and straggly-limbed in such a position but he seemed to pull it off somehow; his hair ran along the stitches in the cushions and came tumbling over the edge, settling on the carpet in a great white curl.

"I dislike women," he deadpanned suddenly, breaking through her visual gobbling. She almost started, seeing how serious his face was; then he broke into a laugh. "No I don't, sorry." Then, sighing; "It's hard to find an opening that's both dramatic _and_ true."

"You're not exactly the last person to whom dramatic things happen."

"I know." A pause. "I… like women?"

"Is that supposed to be dramatic?"

"Ask those who think I'm a raging homosexual," he said, "It'd probably have them looking for their jaws."

"Still, I'm not particularly impressed."

"Isn't this supposed to be a monologue?"

"Yes, yes, sorry."

"Does it mean I'm rambling?"

"Of course not. Though sexuality is a subject prone to be rambled about."

He laughed again. "Right you are. So, women- "

"I'm still noting that the first thing that comes to your mind when asked by a stranger to talk is sexuality."

"Why are you so intent on spoiling my monologue, woman?" Sephiroth mock-protested.

"Go, go, go."

"Right."

A long while was spent thinking about how to start, and she had the luxury to resume her visual feast.

"Sexuality being the most easily approachable subject for me apparently, as you so bluntly said, I think I'll start there," he said. "… have you read any of Sacher-Masoch's work?"

"The guy who's at the origin of the word 'masochism'?" Oh, this was going to be interesting.

"Yes."

"No, I haven't."

"But you're still familiar with the notion of masochism?"

"I have to say, not really. I've stayed on the surface of those things. When you say that I tend to imagine whips and chains so, yeah. There must be a whole psychological finesse to it but I'm sadly not familiar with it yet." She uncrossed her legs, crossed them again. "Though, you should really start babbling regardless of my opinion on these things."

Sephiroth smiled to himself, and paused before continuing. "I believe we're in constant search of equilibrium, whoever we are, whatever our purpose and situation. Which is why people who are in happy, effortless contexts seek grief, and vice versa. It works for every domain. I don't actively seek any state of mind, since I'm content with my current situation; but I have to admit that, perhaps you'll say _unconsciously_, I seek ways to belittle myself – with dignity, mind you. Never forget the dignity. And sexuality offers such a marvelous palette, as long as you find the right partner."

His fingers played with his trench coat buckles as he spoke. "I find myself humble. I don't think particularly highly of myself. But, there's this _thing_… this unasked for sort of _pride_ that I can feel lurking; it isn't me. And it isn't only pride. It's a sort of self-consuming adoration of myself." He was half laughing as he spoke. "Now, I may be a _little_ bit conceited at times, like most soldiers are, but this is different. I can't believe I'm actually saying this - anyway. It's always been there, this out-of-body sort of feeling, as if there was some secondary entity constantly arguing with me that I must put myself above everyone – that I have the _means_ to do so. I don't know, maybe it's a coping mechanism seeking to supplant my humour. But you could say, it's like a little voice in my head. Probably the same species as those who tell madmen to murder their families and the like. But even though it's easy to blot out, I still look for ways of counter-attacking it, burying it with even more efficiency than just ignoring it. And that's where masochism comes in.  
"I transfer all that inappropriate but tempting adoration onto another subject." He was smiling into his arm now, completely relaxed. "Yes… a woman. The main principle of masochism is not physical pain as everyone seems to think, but the utter worship of one entity, and the will to become the slave of that same entity. Then, of course, you must be treated as a slave to properly enjoy it- willful submission is hardly constructive if your partner doesn't play the part of the master properly, you see.  
"So you were right; there is a whole fascinating psychological dimension to a masochistic relationship; I'd even say that physical pain is hardly as enjoyable as the psychological pain. I actually don't particularly seek physical harm; it hardly has any flavour next to the psychological torture of a woman's indifference, when she's like a Goddess in your eyes. "

"And this is a conscious choice of yours?" she asked him as impersonally as she could, "How can you appreciate the relationship properly when you both 'play the part'?"

"It starts as a game," he told her, "It always ends up affecting us. Women always seem to have a penchant for haughty indifference, once a relationship has gone on for a while. And when you encourage them to that indifference, they only rush into it all the faster."

"So seeing as this is majorly psychological, is there always sex involved?"

"Not always," he said loftily. "In fact, after a while they refuse all physical contact out of sheer lack of desire and general carelessness, and that's when it starts to be the most deliciously bittersweet. I think you can even enjoy this sort of feeling with someone you're not physically involved with."

"What about family?"

"You're not going to jump down my throat with Oedipus, I hope," he muttered good-naturedly, "But yes, I suppose so. I wouldn't know though; I'm not very interested in my family."

"Why not?"

There was a pause, and he started to laugh a very dry and bitter laugh, contrasting quite brutally with the mood up till now. "I think you'll have to go poke around in the unconscious part of my mind to find an answer to that."

"We're getting to that," she said. "So you're not interested in sex itself, but rather the psychology behind obtaining pleasure."

"Of course I'm interested in _sex_," the General laughed, "Last time I checked I still had a fully functional body, being fundamentally masculine under all the rest."

And he said he wasn't _that_ conceited. "Heterosexual?"

"That's none of your business." He opened an eye. "I'm sure I'm not rambling – you're just getting too curious, aren't you?"

"I'm only helping the flow of ideas," she said, caught and almost blushing though it hadn't been her intention at all. Though maybe… _unconsciously_… oh, she hated understanding human psychology sometimes.

"Sure you are," he half-grinned, closing his eyes again. "Let's see… strangling, yes. Biting, yes. Scraping vertebrae against the wall, yes. Scratching to the blood, yes. Bruises, oh yes. You want more?"

"It's your monologue."

"Oh, _now_ it's my monologue? OK. So where was I; bruises, yes, colourful bruises, yellow and purple all mottled and spotty with the blood aching to break through the surface. Bruises covering the dainty white skin of a girl's thighs; unevenly speckling the tendons of her neck; sprinkling her shoulders like dull glitter, aching to be renewed. But I don't like to scratch their skin; I'm the one who gets those marks. It looks much better on muscle, you see, and frankly it isn't as much a reflex for me as it is for them. They'll run their nails down my back harder and harder, though never faster, and always in the same places approximately so they're constantly deepening the trenches. At one point, just before the blood breaks through, the scratches rise like lilac scars along your skin, you know, like artistic scarification; but there are always some that bleed at the end. It's inevitable. And then they kiss it away before applying the leather. I know, it's always nice when you achieve climax with only each other's bodies in the good old fashioned way, but it's even better to _modernize_ things a little. And, well, there's a lot of leather. And rope, but not too often. Some silk or velvet, for the ladies. And metal."

There was a little silence, and then he suddenly opened his eyes. "Did I just say all that out loud?"

"Yes you did," said the good doctor without even bothering to suppress her smile. Simple comfort and relaxation could really bring anything out of a man's mouth- it seemed to her that he'd started talking just to annoy her, but then he'd gotten enrapt by his own imaginings and reminiscences and carried on. It could happen; but privately she was enjoying her little victory over his attempt to destabilize her.

He was scowling. "Oh, _fu_-"

"No cursing in here while you're still fully conscious."

He half-heartedly glared at her. "Well that's appropriate, isn't it." He _humph_ed. "Bloody comfortable couches, making you ridiculously sincere."

"Everything we say stays in this room, I'm sure you know."

"Except for the deranged Doctor we all dearly love," he muttered. "I assume he's listening in?"

"He did commission the whole session," the woman said to excuse the fact. "And I'm taping you; I can always delete the bits you want to keep confidential. Besides, all of that wasn't necessarily important – the mesmerizing session will determine whether or not I'll be forced to keep it."

"Speaking of which, when are we going to get to that?"

"Just tell me a little more about yourself."

"Fantastic." Sephiroth turned on his side, leaning on one elbow and practically glaring at her as he spoke; "I like blood and guts and sending troops to die. Is that easy enough to diagnose? Now let's go."

"You were so beautifully sincere before; try again," she smiled angelically at him, which only made him more annoyed.

"Alright, let me just sink into your traitorous little pillows here, it might come back in a second." He let his gaze slide down to her calves as he leaned back a little more, expression haughty and disdainful. "I like…"

"Women?"

He smiled, eyes catching hers again. "I was going to say men this time."

She laughed; she couldn't help it. This was going nowhere. Even though they told her to have a proper open-minded chat with him like in normal psychologist-patient sessions, she had to admit she couldn't wait to gain access to that part of him that wasn't so ridiculously chained up in defensive self-control.

She clapped her palms to her thighs.

"Ok. Let's go. Lay down, I'm going to hypnotize you."

"Victory!" Sephiroth practically whooped, "I knew talking about sex would put you off."

She glared at him playfully, wondering just how different he'd be when she'd pulled down that ironic nature that seemed to cover up the rest.

He obediently stretched out to his full length on the couch, legs and arms all gathered, hands joint on his stomach, the back of his head cushioned on the headrest where his hair spilled over the plump crimson, creating red and white motley.

"Your eyes are closed. You're not sleepy so your eyelids are fluttering slightly," she started, speaking slowly and breathily with as much neutrality in her voice as she could put. "You see little lights and colours on the backs of your eyelids; these are called_ phosphenes_. You can try to follow them with your eyes but they're everywhere; you can't focus on a single one because they're constantly shifting. …feel how your eyes strain as they seek to capture a single form. Try to be aware of the muscles working." He was frowning a bit; definitely concentrated on her voice and instructions. "Feel every part of your body that touches the couch. Your back, spine curved and sinking into the cushions. Your hands, half on the cold of the leather, half on the warmth of your skin. Feel how each finger slides against the next; how they interlace, effortless, each hand locking with the other. Hipbones; they dig a little into the hollows of your wrists. The backs of your legs and your backside, pressing into the couch; feel how gravity pulls them down, how the very bones seem heavy. Run down your thigh, over your knee, along the surface of your shin, along each little tendon in your foot. Squeeze under your toenails. Between your toes. Skim across the web of nerves lying just on the inside of the sole, in the dip. Make your way back up the surface of your foot. Now the other leg."

She spoke thus, anchoring him further and further into his body, sharpening his awareness till nothing else existed in his mind but his senses, and her instructions. Mentally he travelled wherever she told him to go, inside his body. She could see his concentration deepening, becoming more instinctual and meditative; his limbs twitched a little as they completely relaxed. Now she could start.

"All that exists is the vital energy which stirs you, binds the atoms of your being together. Become aware of its ebb and flow; in every breath. Inhalation. Exhalation. Every heartbeat. Pumping blood out; sucking blood in. The flow of blood in each slender vein, coming, going."

Abandoning all other awareness than that of his body seemed to have distressed him somehow; he was panting a little, fingers locked together a little tightly.

"Relax. You are that energy; you are a breeze of it, molecular, twisting around each transparent building block of your being. Twist and curl. Dive into the atom. Dive into the stars."

He was there. He was outside himself, or deep inside, however you prefer- she could see it. She leaned closer, heart beating with excitement.

"Sephiroth," she breathed.

In a sudden spasm, the tendons of his neck strained as he threw his head back, mouth distorted in a pained grimace, brow furrowed. She fell back in her chair, startled – his fingers scraped at the backs of his hands, then flew up to scrape at his chest, pulling aside the coat to reveal and attack more flesh – his back arched violently; and as she breathlessly waited he settled his body back down, vertebra by vertebra.

He opened his mouth, and a string of sounds came out that belonged to no language she had ever heard spoken before.

She stared, open-mouthed.

"Sephiroth?"

He turned his head towards her freakishly slowly, eyes revolving under the lids, silver lashes trembling. "_Mine._"

She squinted at him confusedly, frightened by that deep, dead voice he had adopted, as if he'd forgotten how to use his vocal chords. "Where are you?" she whispered.

He seemed to be trying to slowly peel the skin off of his pectoral muscles and ribs. She didn't know if she should touch him to make him stop it – but then the hands calmed and sort of flopped down, one on his chest, the other on his stomach. Then he opened his mouth, coughed and rasped a bit as if clearing his throat of cobwebs, and haltingly spoke; "I reside within. Without. Everywhere_."_ One of the inert hands came to a forearm, where he scratched himself so violently that blood stained his fingertips, the main trickle running down the muscle. "_Here,"_ he specified before she could do anything, and he showed her his bloodied hand. He _smiled._

Then he spasmed again, and clutched at his own chest as if trying to regain possession of himself.

"Sephiroth?" she asked again when he'd stilled himself, practically blinded by excitement and curiosity.

"So old,_" _he sighed with a bizarre peacefulness, "Tired. …my son._"  
_

"Your son?" Nowhere had it been mentioned that Sephiroth had a son, and Gaia knew this man was the most supervised human being on this planet.

"So long I have waited, trapped, unable to wither, unable to die." He turned his face towards the couch, away from her. "And he came into being, and we were merged. Perfect… synchronism. Yes. Perfect…"_  
_

"Who are you?" she felt obliged to ask._  
_

"Consciousness…" He began muttering unintelligibly; "_… _annihilation… control… my son_."_ It became a string of words with no grammatical coherence, and as he spoke he turned towards her a little more, face crumpling in what looked like pain.

"What do you seek?" whispered the doctor, who was so puzzled that she didn't see how she could possibly make anything out of all this. He was drooling, and his eyes were revolving wildly behind his eyelids.

"Nothing," he croaked after a long silence. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothingness." Then; "_My son."_

She sat back, let a long silence pass, before Sephiroth whispered a torturous word in a very archaic form of the common tongue; she'd studied linguistic histories, so she knew it meant _vengeance_. But she was sure soldiers, even Generals, weren't taught that kind of thing since it was hardly useful for their careers. She watched in wonder as his lips and tongue articulated it, the whole 8 odd syllables of it in the harsh, uneven accent that not even scholars could produce so accurately.

Then his hands came up to his head where he clutched his skull and said no more. She wondered whether she should – whether she _could_ ease him back to a proper, conscious state of mind. Perhaps she ought to ask more questions; but when she tried he would no longer answer. Would it break him to jolt him out of the hypnosis with the usual code word? She was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that her job not only involved analysis but _protection_ of her patients' intellects and day-to-day personalities; and that it was never a game to furrow too deeply in the unexpressed, unlighted darkness of a man's mind.

She sat there paralyzed for a spell. What truly frightened her more than the man's senseless effusions was the fact that she was absolutely incapable of finding a suitable explanation in all that she knew about him. Every cell of his body had a file; every idea in his brain could be explained by his meticulously arranged education; every interaction he had was spied upon. So where did all this alien knowledge come from?

He was still clutching his head, jagged red lines seeping across the muscles of his forearms where he'd scratched himself- and she realized his nails were digging into his skull too, and that several lines originated from there, running freely down his hands and face – he wasn't breathing, he wasn't _breathing – _she stood up as he writhed, and shouted the code word to snap him out of it. She wasn't even thinking about the imminent loss of her job if the General should become vegetative after this session; she was more preoccupied about the actual fact that, after all the missions and wars and assassinations this man had flawlessly gone through, it would be his own mind that would be the death of him.

The word had no effect on him, or so it would seem – he brought his hands down on the couch, spine twisting in a horrid, inhuman motion as he turned towards her. Then he opened his eyes, and there were only whites – it was all she could do to stay on her chair and not run out of that room screaming, ShinRa contract be damned.

Then as she stared at him, transfixed by both horror and fascination, she suddenly realized that the word _had_ had the desired effect; his eyelids were trembling in what seemed like a struggle to repossess his senses.

"Sephiroth," she said, struck with the idea that her voice might guide him out of there just as surely as it had guided him in. "This body is yours. This mind is your own."

"_Mine,"_ he growled again, and then he let out a feral yell as if the utterance hadn't originated from his own will; he got up and strode with a lunging desperation around the couch, smashing side-on against the wall and grasping at his skull.

"What's happening? _What did you do?_" he gasped as the doctor checked the urge to rush towards him; she didn't know if he was capable of controlling his strength, not to mention what it was directed at.

"It's perfectly normal to experience a certain type of double-personality," she stammered, knowing that a professional's assurance usually calmed the patients down even if it was a pack of bull.

"Is it perfectly normal for it to _hurt_ like this?" the General snapped, before biting back a cry and hugging himself around the waist, spine curling inwards. He did have enough sense to say, "Something tells me you fucked up, Doctor."

"The pain isn't what I expected," the doctor tried to explain, "B-but the rest was entirely predictable, I can assure you."

He turned to look at her, pinning her to the spot with the vision of his haggard face slashed through by dark blood, droplets hanging from his snowy lashes and collecting at the corners of his lips; the hungry leanness of his bared stomach and his slow panting gave him an air of a predator disturbed in the middle of a feast.

"I suggest you leave this room immediately," he gasped, "I - " He couldn't seem to speak without inhaling as if to suppress a sharp pain. "I don't think I can – control myself."

_That._ That right there, was the moment when the doctor decided it would be a perfectly sane reaction for her to start being afraid. She knew the General could dominate man and monster with the same effortlessness, so being in the same room as that man but in a severe state of psychological confusion and physical lack of control was _not_ good. But there was still that medical code of honour that seemed to have pried itself from the papers and curled around her very DNA, which made it humanly impossible for her to leave a distressed patient to fend for himself.

There was a third option, and since she didn't have time to hesitate between fleeing or freezing, she began backing away slowly towards her desk, one finger discreetly going to her wrist and activating the distress signal on her watch.

"You should t-" She swallowed, mouth having become cotton-dry as she beheld the tall black figure half convulsing. "You should talk to me."  
There seemed to be a smile growing on the General's features, breaking through the frown of concentration as he tried to overcome the urge to give in to whatever plagued him.

"No magic spell to get me out of this?"

"No magic can separate a man's soul from his body, if that's what you're asking."

"How naïve," Sephiroth managed to say. "I've separated many a body and soul with magic."

"Nobody said anything about killing," the doctor countered him, but then she jumped back as the General lunged forwards with a grunt of pain, one hand on his head and the other groping for something to hold onto.

"Speaking of which," he rasped as he approached her, "I told you to get out."

"I can't leave you like this - "

"_Woman - "  
_

"I _won't - !"_

She was interrupted by a wanton yell of pain – both hands had come to his head and he was plowing forwards blindly – in a fit of panic she tripped over her own feet as she backed away, stumbling against her desk. A hand fumbled for the drawer, grasping the brass handle with many a nervous clanking and practically throwing out the drawer, plunging inside to get the gun.

There were hands on her arms before she could cock it – squeezing her so hard that she thought her bones would break. And when she lifted her head, the General was looking away from her, trembling under what seemed like the thinnest, most vulnerable self-control she'd ever seen. The muzzle was pressing against his bare stomach and yet he didn't even seem to notice – his hands moved in a flash from her arms to her throat, fire spilling between his fingers, and she screamed as her finger squeezed the trigger.

But even as the gunshot resounded in her ears, even as he winced under the blow, he looked at her with murderous intent blackening his eyes – his mouth opened and he urged her, "_Again!" _as if he hadn't felt anything, as if his body was independent from his will.

His fingers tightened, and she saw white as she squeezed again, again, and _again, _filling his torso with what she thought were tranquillizer darts – but the shots seemed far too loud, and just when she thought her vision was escaping her, his fingers relaxed and slipped from her throat as he fell to his knees before her.

She recovered her breath in long, trembling gasps, gun shaking in her grasp as she looked down at the man at her feet; he'd fallen onto his back, eyes closed and mouth parted as he tried to draw breath. It was when she noticed the pool of blood on the floor under him that she realized it had been bullets.  
She crashed down on her knees next to him, unable to think anything else than, _Oh my God, I've killed Sephiroth!  
_

She could hear the footsteps in the corridor as she pressed a hand against one of the weeping bulletholes, half-crying with utter panic and confusion.

"This can't be happening," she muttered to herself. "Nope. This isn't happening."

"I certainly didn't think… psychoanalysis would… be this interesting," Sephiroth murmured, apparently having recovered his senses. She looked at him with wide eyes, beholding the utter calm of his face, the smooth lines of his closed eyes and the dry blood clotting in the creases. He'd been white to begin with – blood loss was making him look like a ghoul.

"What the hell was that about?" she shouted at him, delirious with relief at the return of his irony.

"I thought it was your job to figure that out."

"The only thing I've got figured out right now is that I've killed the fucking ShinRa poster boy."

"You flatter yourself," he said, and a smile bloomed on his blood-smattered mouth. "This is just foreplay to me."

"Except something tells me you're far from considering me as a _goddess_."

"Right now?" Sephiroth grinned weakly. "You'd be surprised."

"Seeing as you look like you've just lost half of your life's blood I think I'll just ignore that."

Something just seemed so wrong about the situation – putting aside the jest of any domination-submission relationship between them. After staring bewilderedly at his lips unsticking and sucking air through the red, she found the problem.

"General - since when did bullets ever affect you?"

"I don't think it was the bullets," he murmured.

"Well then what was it?"

The door burst open, and the scuffle of military boots filled the heavy silence as the grunts poured into the room. They heaved Sephiroth up by the arms as the doctor tried to explain what had happened; and as they carried him out to bring him to the medical floor, the General swiveled his head around to catch the doctor's nameplate on her open door. He burst out laughing, though the peals were short-lived due to his transpierced abdomen.

"That must be a joke," he managed, before his head fell back against one of the Soldier's shoulders, and he slipped into unconsciousness with a smile still dripping red.

• • •

"Sephiroth, you boneless _twat_."

Genesis had come to pick him up from the medical room, where he'd been taken in so fast that one would've thought the entire ShinRa HQ was shot through with alarm systems that were sensitive to the integrity of every one of their precious General's skin cells.

The First Class elite was sitting on the edge of what looked like a high-tech tub of sorts that had just been drained from the Mako where he'd been floating for the past evening. He was buckling his leather trousers when his friend came in – sighing, he shook his head at the comment before laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

"First of all- " Genesis took out a bottle of red wine from his leathers and slammed it against Sephiroth's bare chest, before standing in front of him, planting both feet wide apart and staring down at his friend, indignity barely covering his amusement. "You let yourself get shot by a woman. Secondly – by a _psychologist._"

"Psychoanalyst."

"Is there a difference?" Genesis cried shrilly, as if this distinction made things worse.

"I don't know. But," Sephiroth added after taking a desultory swig of the bottle. "the fact that she's called Doctor Love does alleviate the sin of being overcome by her, doesn't it?"

"Talk about novelty," Genesis said, rolling his eyes. "And no, it doesn't. Because fourthly – you let yourself _get shot_. What in the Goddess's name is going on?"

"Honestly?" Sephiroth found that it was suddenly exceedingly hard to meet his friend's eye when he said this. "I made her do it."

"_What?_" Genesis let his hilarity break loose this time. "And you keep saying how _I'm_ the one with controversial tendencies."

"I'm not denying that," the silver sighed, "It's just… Genesis." He shifted a little, eyes averted as he tried to sort through what he remembered and the possible interpretations. "Do you remember what you went through when she pulled you under?"

"Of course not," the redhead said, "I mean that's the whole point of hypnosis, isn't it? "

Sephiroth looked down, silver strands fanning over his shoulders so that his profile was obscured from view.

"Afterwards, it felt like… I don't know. Like she'd drawn something out from inside of me."

"That's called the _subconscious_ I believe."

"No." Genesis looked at his friend's pensive expression, waiting for him to speak. A hand came up, tendons straining through the skin as it articulated an explanatory circle. "Doesn't it ever happen to you - when someone catches you with Death or Demi, and you feel like your essence is sucked away and – and there's _something_ kneeling in the debris of your senses, in the ruins of your mortality? Like there's something that's always under there, under your intellect, your personality, your ego, under all that defines you."

Genesis' face was halfway between utter confusion and admiration at such an uncharacteristic surge of poetry.

"… She put that classical music before your session started, didn't she?"

Sephiroth looked around at him, apparently stumbling in his intellectual reach. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"She put the classical music. That's your answer." Genesis gave a laugh. "Put on the masters of old lyricism and anything can happen. That's how the great Sephiroth was overcome by Doctor Love. And that's also how the same General went from monosyllabic communication skills to full-out existentialist ranting."

"Genesis – I'm trying to _share _something with you here."

The redhead sighed, snatching the bottle from his companion and twisting the cork back into it with a thumb. "What do you want me to say? The _Agnus Dei_ escaped from her vinyl and snuggled into your mind in a flurry of fluff. It's _hypnosis_, darling, it's not meant to be understood."

"It wasn't a benevolent entity," Sephiroth countered. "It was the reason I wanted her to shoot me. I wanted her to shoot _it. _Even at the expense of my own life – as long as it would put it to sleep again."

Genesis suddenly realized that his friend might not be joking around about this after all. He stepped forwards hesitantly, then leaned in to slap the man on the shoulder, leather glove dulling the sound. "I think you need a good spar to get your muscles working instead of your head."

Sephiroth smirked, letting himself be pulled to his feet. "Yes, yes," he sighed, "Though I'm not like to forget about this any time soon."

He was stretching out his limbs just as Genesis moved to the door; turning his face to the side, the redhead added;

"Also, some clothes might do you good."

"Really?" The General cracked his knuckles, having fully recovered that trademark arrogant air. "So partial nudity bothers you now?"

"Oh, _you_."

• • •

The doctor shivered in her consultation divan as she recollected Hojo's reaction. She'd long debated whether or not she should give up the tape to the white coats – but if she hadn't, she would've just stupidly incriminated herself of attacking their prized Soldier for no good reason. It was true, if she'd had to listen to that sarcastic banter for more than an hour, she might've been naturally inclined to shoot him multiple times through the abdomen. But, the way he'd acted… no, the way he'd _been_… her true motive for shooting him was much scarier to recall.

She pulled the shawl closer over her shoulders and tried not to think of Hojo's gleeful expression. He'd watched the eerie interaction like a kid might watch a much-expected cartoon; a smile had grown over his skeletal features - such a disgustingly eager smile that she'd hardly thought it appropriate. When she'd asked him what made him so happy, and whether or not she was fired after all, he'd turned to her and shaken her hand with both of his.

"This is _exactly_ the type of session I had hoped for," he'd said.

"So… I'm not fired?"

"Of course not," he'd replied agitatedly, as if it was outrageous to even imply the notion. "I'll need you to dig further. Make contact with the entity again."

"Same time next month then?" Her knees had been so weak with relief she'd thought she might keel over.

"Same time next week!" Hojo had rectified.

Then she might have lost consciousness for all she remembered of the formalities and the trip back to her cozy little consultation room. It had seemed like he'd implied that it was _easy _to make contact with… whatever she'd made contact with. Actually, it wasn't easy to make contact with Sephiroth himself, let alone any ghost that resided inside him.

She pushed her fingertips against her eyelids, massaging them as if it could ease the headache she could feel creeping up on her.

_I could really use a promotion. Standard part of procedure, huh…  
_

_• • •_


End file.
